I don't appreciate the tone of this IRS letter informing me that I owe them money because “Roombas are not federally recognized dependents.”

So, I passed the motherfuckingbar. Now, I'll gladly help you all divorce your hetero spouses and get gay married in Iowa, bitches.

Dear Tongue, Sorry I can’t distinguish a fresh mug of coffee from a pre-vacation mug of coffee growing mold. Best regards, Peripheral Vision

Dentist this morning. Convinced that strippers turn hygienist after 30. So much boob in the face and still the rules about no touching.

Shoes in the drier. This is what it must have been like to listen to Fred Astaire on the radio.

I like my victims like I like my coffee: mugged at night with a spoon.

Toilet paper, like cash register receipt paper, should turn red toward the end of the roll so you know what you [don't] have to work with.

3 mugs of Panera coffee is making my eyelid twitch. Girl thought I winked at her, so I had to give her the finger to neutralize things.

I'd probably be sleeping right now if HowStuffWorks.com didn't have a nice long article on making LSD, which I stumbled, or tripped, upon.

Before I go to the chiropractor in the morning, someone remind me to put the bubble wrap and ketchup packets in my pockets.

I shave my toe hair so my ninja kicks don't tickle.

“The computer/internet conundrums my wife gets herself into are not a microcosm of women and technology.” I was told to write this 100 times

Spent all day pressure washing siding and getting sprayed in the face. I didnt like it and no longer dream of being a gay pornstar.

Okay, now. Pretend you're a juror. I'm giving my first closing argument and start with "BY THE POWER OF GREYSKULL!!!" Thoughts? Effective?

If I don’t pass the bar next week because you people keep encouraging me with star candy, your doorbell will ring, your couch then occupied.

In Nebraska we don't have street cleaners. The wind blows most of the grime away, and the farmers gather the dead hookers for fertilizer.

The salon just called to apologize because they charged me for a women’s cut. They offered a credit or to suck the dick I apparently have.

Hate someone? Buy them non-microwaveable bowls for their wedding. They’ll burn their fucking hands off for so long as they both shall live.

Say what you will about American healthcare, but at least in this country Medicare would provide Stephen Hawking with a new Rascal Scooter.

I’d buy those stories about the recession being over if it weren’t for the tent community of feral computers popping up in my backyard.